


All Work and No Play

by ScrollingKingfisher



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Does Winchester emotional baggage count as a character?, Gen, Light Angst, Poor Jack, Post-Episode: s13e03 Patience, Sam Being a Dad, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, or lack thereof, s13e03 coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 14:41:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12608900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrollingKingfisher/pseuds/ScrollingKingfisher
Summary: Jack might be only four and a half days old but he already knows a lot of useful things, like the way nougat sticks in your teeth, and what it feels like to be stabbed, and the way Sam’s forehead scrunches up when he’s trying to solve a problem.Sam tries to teach Jack how to lift a pencil. They both end up learning.





	All Work and No Play

**Author's Note:**

> Crackin' out this one desperately before tonight's episode! I just had to do something after last week. It was too heart-warming.

 

Sam raises his eyebrows and tilts his head down at the pencil lying innocuously on the table, as if he's saying, “Go on then”.

 

Jack knows what Sam wants. Jack might be only four and a half days old but he already knows a lot of useful things, like the way nougat sticks in your teeth, and what the word ‘innocuously’ means, and what it feels like to be stabbed, and the way Sam’s forehead scrunches up when he’s trying to solve a problem. 

 

Right now the problem is that he wants to see Jack levitate the pencil. Jack can see it in his fractured-shining-soul, the excitement and anticipation swirling and mixing with the fear. Those emotions are new. The fear though, that never goes away. Jack doesn't know how Sam survives, being so terrified all the time.

 

But Jack does know, even as he frowns down at the pencil, that he can’t do it. There’s none of that energy running through him the way it had done before, ready and willing to reshape the world however he wants it. He tries, because Sam is clearly expecting him to, and he likes Sam. Sam is always so kind to him, even when he’s afraid.

 

Jack scowls down at the pencil, trying to ignore the steady tapping of Sam’s attention against his consciousness. Sam keeps on and on at him, talking about how he does it (he doesn’t know, it just happens), and what Asmodeus had done to him (which makes him want to shiver and crawl into a small, dark space and never come out again).

  
Finally, Sam gives up. He takes a long assessing look at Jack and stands. “I’ll get some food. Just. You stay here, try to relax. When I get back, we’ll try again.”

 

He leaves. Jack slumps, staring at the pencil in defeat. It should feel like a relief, being out from under that scrutiny, but it’s not. He’s never going to be able to do this. Because without something dark like Asmodeus egging him on, he’s not even able to lift a pencil.

 

He gets up from the table then hunkers down against the wall, folding himself into the corner. Dean was right.

 

It doesn’t take long before he feels a spike of panic, then the sound of running footsteps and the door flies open.

 

“Jack? Jack!” Sam looks around, wild eyed, and then sags in relief when he sees Jack in the corner. “What are you doing?”

 

Jack regrets making Sam panic a little, but not enough to encourage him to get off the floor. He holds up the pencil defiantly. “I moved the pencil.”

 

Sam’s shoulders droop further. “Okay, look. I know this isn't exactly fun-” 

 

“It's the opposite of fun,” Jack puts in petulantly.

 

“Okay. But why is it so hard? I've seen you throw people across the room. I've  _ been _ thrown across the room by you. I've- I've seen you open a gate to hell, and now nothing? It doesn't make sense.” He’s got that puzzle-solving forehead again, but Jack knows the answer to this one.

 

“It'd make sense if I was evil.”

 

Sam seems genuinely surprised. “What?”

 

Jack turns away. He doesn’t want to think about this any more. “Just go please.”

 

“No, Jack!” Sam crouches down so that he’s more on Jack’s level. “Why do you think you're evil? ‘Cause when I look at you, that's not what I see.”

 

“Dean sees it. That's why he said he'd kill me.”

 

“What!?” Anger flashes across Sam’s mind, fast and sharp as a whip, followed by concern and an odd ache. 

 

Jack looks down at his hands, twisting the fingers around each other. “Maybe Dean  _ should  _ kill me. Mom said that I could be good, that I could make a choice to be good, that it was up to me. But she's dead because of me. I've only been on earth for a few days and I've already hurt people. I've already done bad things. And no matter how I try, I can't do the one stupid good thing you want me to do. So I must be evil. Like lucifer.”

 

There’s a long silence. “Jack. Listen.” Sam’s voice is quiet but insistent. Jack doesn’t look up. “Asmodeus tricking you, Dean- what he said- none of that is your fault. And I think that after everything that's happened, I don't blame you for being afraid to use your power. And me pressuring you isn't helping.”

 

Jack raises his head and meets Sam’s eyes. “Really?”

 

“Really. What do you say we call it until I figure out a better way? How does that sound?”

 

Jack thinks about it and nods. “Good.”

 

“Good. C’mon.” Sam extends one large hand and Jack takes it, letting him pull him upright. 

 

They stand there a little awkwardly. Sam seems to debate for a second, biting his lip and there's that ache again, but then he reaches out for Jack and pulls him in. Jack is confused for a second as long arms wrap around him. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

 

“This is where you hug back,” Sam’s voice resonates against his chest. Slowly, Jack raises his arms, wrapping them around the human in return. Some newly discovered instinct has him burying his face in the soft flannel of Sam’s shoulder. 

 

Sam is warm. His heart beats against Jack’s cheek, a little too hard, a little too fast.  All the events of the past four and a half days suddenly seem to crash over him and the corners of his eyes start to prickle. He scrunches them up and presses in harder, as though getting closer to the warm light of Sam’s soul will somehow guard him against the horrors of this terribly confusing world. Sam’s hand comes up and rubs over his shaking back, soothing back and forth.

 

Eventually though he has to let go. He has to ask.

 

“Sam. Why are you being so nice to me?”

 

Sam pauses with his hand still on Jack’s shoulder, like he’s weighing the words very carefully before he says them. “Because I know what it feels like to not belong. To feel like there's this darkness inside you, to be afraid of yourself and what you can do. Dean and Cas, my family, they helped me through that. So now I want to help you, Jack. Because you're not evil.”

 

Jack can’t imagine Dean helping anyone through anything. Maybe he was different before that ball of grief started eating into his soul. But it feels good knowing that Sam at least understands; he knows about having powers. He’s done this before. He’s managed to control them. So maybe that’s the key for Jack to learn how. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you showed me?”

 

Sam sends him a confused look as he walks over to the table. “Hmm?”

 

“If you showed me how to do it. You used to have powers, didn’t you?”

 

Jack feels Sam’s fear leap a little higher. His heart beat ticks up a notch. “Yeah. I did. But Jack, that… that was a long time ago. I’m not sure I can even do it any more.”

 

“You can,” Jack assures him. He can see the patterns in Sam’s soul where the energy would flow, like a dried out river bed. It would just be a matter of tapping into it again.

 

Sam’s hand clenches tight on the back of the chair. “I’m not sure if I want to. Jack, my powers weren’t like yours. I got them by… I didn’t get them like you did, they aren’t natural. And I did bad things with them.”

 

Jack frowns at him, confused. Hadn’t Sam just been saying that his powers weren’t dark? “But your powers  _ are  _ natural. I can see it. Do you mean that my powers could be bad things, too?” 

 

“No! No Jack, that’s not what I-” Sam cuts himself off, rubbing a hand over his face and scrunching his eyes shut. 

 

Suddenly, Jack understands. “Oh. You made a mistake, like I almost made a mistake with Asmodeus.”

 

Sam looks away, his eyes dark and haunted. “Yes.”

 

“So, that was bad. And it hurt people. But your powers aren’t,” Sam opens his mouth to interrupt but Jack has to finish this, “Because if your powers are bad, then mine have to be too.”

 

Sam’s mouth is still hanging open, the beginnings of words escaping before he cuts them off, and Jack can see the turmoil inside him, synapses snapping like a miniature lightning storm. Jack shifts nervously.

 

After a minute or two Sam slumps. But it’s the good sort of slump, as though he’s travelled miles and miles with a weight on his back and has finally put it down. His mind calms and he pulls out the chair,dropping into it. “Yeah,” he sighs, “I guess so.” He looks up at Jack and smiles, although it’s still a little shaky. “Alright, I’ll give it a try.”

 

Jack smiles back encouragingly and sits opposite him, placing the pencil in the middle of the table in a mirror image of earlier. Sam takes a deep breath and leans forwards. He narrows his eyes. For a long moment, nothing happens. 

 

Then Jack sees it coming. He watches closely as Sam gathers the power, amplifies it, channels it. Light begins to flicker behind Sam’s irises, and one end of the pencil rises slowly, shakily off the table, wobbling up into the air. Jack lets out a noise of excitement and Sam loses concentration, letting it drop back to the table with a clatter, but when he looks up he’s smiling and his eyes are clear, alight now not with power but with exhilaration.  

 

By the end of the afternoon they can float the pencil across the table to one another. Sam laughs and stands from the table, stretching and insisting that they take a break. Jack nods reluctantly, because knows that lifting a pencil isn’t much. He’ll need to work on it before he’s ready to try and rescue his father. 

 

It feels good, though. It feels like progress.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments always welcome :)


End file.
